Clarice starling sits at home
With a gun on her hip and a hand on the phone
When the mailman comes she paces around
While her letter falls through onto the ground.
Creamy white envelope, ink black as night
She tries to stop trembling with all of her might
It's from the good doctor, as many before
Of the creamy letters which fall from her door
With precision and grace she opens the seal
For the copperplate cursive which holds an appeal.
The letter is filled with gleeful insights
Into her life, her job and her plights.
She hates him so much for evading the law
Or maybe it's cause of her nerves, so raw?
She burns the letter, and stamp and seal
For with her agency she no longer deals.
And each month the mailman, smiling, polite
Will come and deliver the source of her spite.
And as he strolls 'round from her house to yonder
Doctor Lecter the mailman feels saddened no longer.
Inside her house Clarice takes from a tray
A fruit, which will lead her sorrow astray
For an apple a day keeps the doctor away.